


Instinct

by lary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Consensual Underage Sex, Dark, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lary/pseuds/lary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco faces different choices before his twentieth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct

 

 

My first time was in my third year of Hogwarts. It all progressed quickly from the startled realisation that I'm getting hard from watching my best friend towelling himself off to snogging said best friend breathless and rutting against him until we were both coming, Blaise with his towel pooling in his feet and I still fully dressed in my schoolrobes.

 

That first time I'd been too horny to pay attention to anything beyond getting off, but what followed from there on was thorough mutual exploration. Blaise got off on my enthusiasm, and I got off on getting better and better at making him come undone. I was equally fascinated by his dark skin as he was by my pale, and for months we spent whatever free moment we could find in any semi-private corner of Hogwarts in the process of tasting each other everywhere.

 

During the holidays, I got an additional thrill from sneaking around right under my father's nose. However, after a while I realised that he knew what was going on and approved of the fact that I was being relatively discrete in my homosexual liaisons, as a proper pure-blood scion should. It was at that point when I started to grow bored with Blaise. He soon moved on to Pansy and then to Smith, and I think there was briefly Theo, too. I didn't care much. By then, whenever I got out of Hogwarts I was polyjuicing myself into attractive older men and slipping into muggle gay bars. I sucked off more men than I care to count, and shagged whoever was up for it regardless of preference in topping or bottoming. And I fucking loved it.

 

The thrill I got from subverting father vanished completely when Potter got him thrown into Azkaban.

 

***

 

In the sixth year, I got my revenge, and it tasted sweeter than I'd anticipated.

 

It was highly convenient, the obsession Potter had with me. I had a fucking near-permanent hard on, walking around Hogwarts with the Chosen One trailing after me. The Malfoy mask had never been as useful as it was then.

 

Only Blaise could really see the satisfaction I got from Potter's obsession with me – he recognised the tell-tale signs of my arousal, after all. I told him that jealousy didn't become him, knowing full well that he was over those kind of feelings for me if he'd ever had them in the first place.

 

The Saint Potter was a fucking voyeur and I wanked myself raw – in my bed at night, in the prefects bathroom, in the quidditch changing rooms – all the while thinking that he could be watching right at that moment.

 

Potter broke down right after the winter holidays. I had to give it to him: it took him longer than I though it would, and his impressive self-control made me wonder whether he might have it in him to kill off the Dark Lord after all.

 

It happened after a quidditch practice. This time I knew for sure that he was there when I lathered myself up slowly and languidly even as my prick strained for attention. I let it build up, the arousal and desire, touching and trailing over my skin too gently before spreading myself open, knowing exactly how I must have looked to him as I leaned against the tiled wall and fucked myself shamelessly with soaped fingers until I was choking with want and my balls felt like they were about to burst.

 

That's when I told him I knew he was watching me, and that was his downfall. After that first time he gave in and touched me - substituting my fingers with his prick, his teeth and nails marking my skin - there was nothing he could do to keep himself away from me, drawn to me like a moth to a flame, unable to restrain his desire to touch my body, his need to have me.

 

Oh how he always hated it. When he should have wanted the sweet innocent girl next door, he couldn't stop thinking about a _Malfoy_. When he was supposed to be lusting after long red hair and soft curves, he was aching for my dirty Death Eater cock. His green eyes were bright and expressive, delightfully showing all his self-loathing. I smiled at him when I fucked him, because all of his shame did nothing to help him muffle his cries of pleasure.

 

It was lust, it was hate, it was need. Neither of us could stop, not by our own choice.

 

That year of insanity came to an end at the top of the Astronomy Tower, where my godfather saved me from having to become a murderer.

 

***

 

Three weeks later I was back at the Manor, staying still and silent in a meeting of Death Eaters and I knew the day I'd most feared was here.

 

Bellatrix was out of the Dark Lord's favour.

 

The only thing I could be grateful for was that it had lasted long enough that I was back home. As I watched my beautiful, strong mother mechanically brace herself against what she had long since accepted as inevitable, I hid my strengthening resolve, knowing she would have tried to stop me. I couldn't let her. Over my dead body was that psychopath touching my mother.

 

“Narcissa,” the Dark Lord spoke after the dinner was finished, clearly amused by my aunt's useless pleading for his attention.

 

For the first time, I met the Dark Lord's eyes without having been ordered to, and with that decision I took his notice away from my mother. She gasped in horror, but it was too late for her to do anything. The Dark Lord was already pushing in, his overwhelming presence taking over as much of my mind as I'd ever allowed it to, and I used all the skills Snape had taught me. Everything was riding on it.

 

The rage at the thought of him with my mother was real, and I let it show, tainting it with bitter jealousy that was entirely manufactured. He sent me back his curiosity and a satisfaction that felt much like a mental caress, and I focused on pouring out image after image of how I'd visualised myself looking when I'd fantasised about being watched the previous year – vivid mental images of touching myself in the shower and of laying spread across the expensive silk sheets of the bed in my room, like a ritual sacrifice bared for his taking.

 

Judging by the Dark Lord's harshly hissed response, it was working. Even as I let him feel the real pride and satisfaction, I shielded the equally strong disgust and fear into the back of my mind. After some deliberation I also allowed him to glimpse the twisted pleasure I was gaining out of the knowledge that my father was horrified at the thought of his son in his Master's hands, an emotion I wasn't proud of, leftovers from the kind of rebellion I used to enjoy.

 

And that was what did it. The Dark Lord couldn't resist the temptation of power that was his for the taking along with the carnal pleasures offered by violating my perfect pure-blood body. His desire flooded into me through the mental link before he broke it.

 

There is no real sense of time when the Dark Lord is in your head, and what had felt to me like a long interrogation had in truth taken only a few moments. While I battled the slight vertigo, he moved effortlessly back into the conversation and ordered my mother to sit back down.

 

“Please,” she tried, “allow me to ask you to reconsider...”

 

Damn, I wanted to shake her, but I refrained from showing my displeasure except in my gaze, which I kept fixed on the Dark Lord now, walking the tightrope between impressing him and showing reverence. And the gamble paid off, for he laughed, pleased by the internal division of the Malfoy family and by the novelty of what I was freely offering to him.

 

“My Lord,” Snape started but, to my relief, he wasn't allowed to finish.

 

“Silence,” the Dark Lord demanded, cutting off all sound, including my aunt's whining. She was staring at me with murder in her eyes, when our lord and master beckoned me forwards. I kneeled at his feet, showing my full submission.

 

“All of you should be aware that I have a new pet,” the Dark Lord announced, his fingertips combing through my hair. My mother was clutching her handkerchief with white knuckles and the rigid lines of father's jaw betrayed his fear and horror in a way that he would have berated in anybody else.

 

When the Dark Lord rose and walked leisurely out of the dining hall, I followed. While I wished I couldn't hear my mother's wails as she broke down, at the same time it strengthened my resolve. For her, I would take all of it.

 

Following my Lord's instructions I bared myself. The pure-blood training in controlling my emotions served me well as I first kneeled and then, at his command, stood proudly naked in front of him.

 

Even as I wanted to flinch away from his touch, I felt the seductive flush from his power, the magic that was running under his skin, the flow that he now let run freely and draw me to him. His long, narrow fingers held my chin up, forcing me to look into his blood red eyes. He was clearly taking satisfaction in watching the reaction I couldn't suppress as he let wave after wave of his power wash over me. Each one made me tremble almost uncontrollably.

 

“Let go, my Draco,” the Dark Lord ordered, and I obeyed, as a good little whore is supposed to, only holding onto the control of my mental shields as I let everything else go and allowed my body to react to the sensation he was causing in me. Persistently, I sent all the loathing and disgust and apprehension directly behind the mental shields, effectively clearing my mind of anything but the lust and pleasure his touch evoked in me in spite of myself.

 

The Dark Lord was a painfully skilled lover, making me ache and desire his touch and beg for it, no doubt more for the power rush he was getting out of breaking me down than for any care for my enjoyment. But I took my own desire for power and I fed it and rode it, letting him see the challenge in my eyes, figuring that from me it wouldn't be serious enough for him to see it as a threat and gambling on increasing his want rather than enraging him. Kneeling in front of him, I sucked his cock with all the skill in my possession and from the fiery flash in his eyes, it was evidently working on all levels. I made him gasp in a way that was telling of his momentary loss of control, a feat I believe he found impressive as much as he resented it.

 

In a flash, I was being thrown on the bed and held down on my stomach. With him it was impossible to tell if it was by magic or force. The sense of relief that came from being able to shut my eyes from the mental rape was overpowering, even as he pierced my body from behind, his cock pushing into me brutally; harsh, punishing strokes only aided by his magic, which was engulfing me in sensation so strong that whether or not I was coming was rendered entirely meaningless.

 

There was no way for me to tell whether it was hours or days that I ceased to exist other than for the Dark Lord's pleasure, the corner of my mind I had shielded as my own becoming more and more insignificant. But, in the end, I won the battle I had fought for my mother. From there on, I was the one he took to his bed.

 

It lasted until the final battle.

 

***

 

As he addresses the Wizengamot, wielding the power his adoring public is granting him and using it to keep my sorry Death Eater arse out of Azkaban, for just a moment I believe that Harry Potter has grown up. He's beautiful. Strong and confident and magnificent.

 

In that moment, I remember why I lust for him. Why I hate him. Why I need him.

 

It's only after I'm released – when I see him from across the ministry entrance hall, standing amongst his adopted family, holding the hand of Ginerva Weasley and carefully not looking over to where my mother gathers me in her embrace – that's when I know.

 

I would laugh, if I still knew how. A year of whoring myself to the psychopath so that mother is spared, a year of keeping myself ready for the taking, preparing my mind for penetration as much as my body. A year that had felt like ten, and still the bloody Saviour of the Wizarding World isn't over Draco Malfoy.

 

A week into Potter's Auror training, I return to the ministry and seek him out.

 

Blaise wipes off his smirk at the last possible minute. Without looking, I know that Potter is staring at us. His gaze sets my skin on fire in a way I no longer thought I could feel. He's oblivious, of course, still assuming I'm unaware of how jealous he used to be over Blaise.

 

Oh, the Gryffindor innocence.

 

By the time I'm done arguing with the clerk about the conditions of my parole, Potter is gone, but I've achieved my goals. He knows I no longer live in the Manor with mother (I cannot take the look in her eyes). He knows where to find me.

 

When he finally does, three weeks later, I know immediately that I've miscalculated. He's not nervous in that manner that screams denial. He's all confidence and effortless power, the way he was in the courtroom, except now I can tell it's real, that he's ready to face what he wants.

 

Pierced by his green eyes now, I realise how royally fucked I am.

 

Where the hell does he get off doing this to me? I've heard, of course, all about Harry Potter having power the Dark Lord knew not, but this is the first time I fear there's something to it. After all, I was able to fool His Lordship, offering myself as the perfect pure-blood pet and letting him touch the body he couldn't tell had been previously dirtied by his arch nemesis as well as numerous filthy muggles. I had kept up the façade. But now, with Potter, it suddenly feels like my shields are in danger of breaking down, as if he's looking right through them, right through me. I know, I _know_ he's shit at legilimency, that it would be easy to sweep into his head if that was what I wanted, if I wished to rape his mind the way mine has been raped, but I don't.

 

The way he looks at me, it's not magic with which he sees me, it's something else, and it renders me breathless. Potter doesn't know, of course, and I won't be the one to tell him. He probably thinks the Dark Lord was above such urges. He wasn't, he was simply above any warm and fuzzy feelings some might attach to the activity. By now, I think myself as incapable of such sentiments as the Dark Lord used to be. I'm unsure of whether I'm more afraid of being proven right or wrong.

 

Never could I have anticipated dropping the ball like this, and he's simply not Slytherin enough for it to be a plan, but he doesn't need to say a word before I break down crying. There must be a curse on me making sure that it's always Potter who's there, time after time witnessing my humiliation. He holds me and I let him, hating myself, hating him, unable to stop, sobbing into his robes while he murmurs soothing, nonsensical words into my ear.

 

Whenever I find the strength, I attempt to get up, but he holds me and I can't fight him. I can't fight any longer. The last time I try, he stops me again, and moves so that he's looking right into my eyes.

 

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs. They're right about Potter, I realise, about his power, all those bloody idiots that worship him. He needs no _Imperius_.

 

“Alright,” I whisper, barely audibly, and I let him take me to bed and undress me. When cradles me in his arms from behind, his body warm and solid against mine, I feel safe again. It's the first time for a long time.

 

The first time of many.

 

 

 


End file.
